On Red Ice
by connorfemway
Summary: Unexpected help brings unexpected complications, and unexpected repercussions. Fem!Connor


_"Connor, has there ever been a tense/ awkward moment of your father literally walking in on you and Sam and posing sneering and condescending remarks to the poor man?"_

AND

_"Have your father and Sam (the Third) ever met in person? If so, how did the unfortunate meeting come about?"_

AND

_"Did Sam ever show up when you were with your father?"_

A reply to THREE asks on the ask blog **connorfemway** on tumblr.

This is one of the **Sam the Third **stories (this is part... 4, I believe). In order to understand what's going on in this piece, it is important to read the stories that have come before this, starting with **To Swim in Winter**. A full list of the Sam the Third story series can be found on my profile - check there if you are interested.

This piece was a huge challenge for me. I just kept writing and writing and there were many parts I went back and changed multiple times. I feel like it is finally okay to be posted and is adequate in answering the questions posed. I just... never again. Not writing this much in one go ever again oh my god. Not easy to manage. I don't know what I was thinking, I guess I just had so much in mind that it... yeah.

Enjoy.

* * *

"Why must you always argue me? I said 'go' not 'bicker'."

Connor tips her head to the side, lip twitching with unspoken words that could very well get her killed. The harder impulse to control was the one to punch Haytham Kenway in the face and break his nose.

"Fine," the Assassin nearly spits venom with this solitary word. Haytham narrows his eyes in challenge, prepares words to combat her tone, but Connor has turned her back. Her strut is angry, snow kicked up with each step. Anger is released through the mumbling of curses under her breath, in a language her father wouldn't understand even if he did manage to hear her.

Splitting up was never a good idea. Her reminding him of the beating he had taken the last time they had tried this did her argument no good. It served only to anger Haytham. A few traded remarks later and Connor felt she could run anyone through with her blade if they got in her way. She resented feeling this way. Without a funnel for the rage, she feared her own actions.

But tonight, the Frontier was beautiful. It aided in the comforting of the Assassin's tired nerves. Even as she was forced to trudge through the snow, under the full moon she could ease into relaxation.

In the darkness small clouds pass her lips. The cold stings rosy cheeks. This work would be handled with haste, she assures herself. The footprints in the snow have solidified and were as clear as the breath rolling off of the Assassin's lips.

Hidden away amongst the snowy trees, trails were hard to find. It is this fact that lets Connor assume those that she and her father pursued knew where they were going. Their footprints were direct, linear, not scattered like a lost man's would be.

The snow is packed harder the farther down the trail the native treks. The trail appears to end at a simple wooden fence with a rickety gate. Beyond the gate, an old manor stands so tall that it rivals the trees around it.

Connor makes a circle with her lips, blowing hot air out of her mouth into the cold night. A sigh follows after this. The footsteps lead up to the front door. The light from within the many windows of the home reflects many forms. Too many bodies.

Too much for Connor to handle on her own. It wasn't something she felt keen to test.

The trail is examined with narrowed brown eyes. Eyelashes catch a snowflake or two in the moments where the Assassin must tip her head upwards. The trees waver overhead, the snow silent.

Minutes pass. The branch beneath Connor creaks but it is spared no concern. A numb palm is pressed against the base of the tree, the other brought to quivering lips. Hot breath helps to revive the skin but it never lasts long enough. Bodies appear and disappear from in front of the lit yet curtained windows. Silhouettes that look to be more enthralled in festivity than they do in business. The Assassin thinks only of how warm it must be.

Something taps Connor's back, prompting her to reach her freshly warmed hand back to scratch at the spot. Snow connects with her fingers. The possibility of snow falling from higher tree branches overhead or the branches themselves falling was high, so this leads to little concern.

The second time it happens, that fact is changed. Connor tips her head upwards to find that no snow is falling from the upper branches. A skeptical expression captures her face.

The third time it happens, the snow connects with her less insulated head. It is snow, but it is harder packed. A snowball.

The Assassin shifts on the branch to turn halfway around. The ground is scanned carefully. From behind a tree not far away, Connor spots a pair of eyes the color of the ocean. Something fond is kindled in her belly, but it fades when the rest of the body attached is examined. From behind the tree, a woman peeks, a pretty smile spread across her pink lips. These same lips begin to move but Connor cannot hear her or read her lips.

The woman's hand rises and beckons her to the spot behind the small group of trees where she stands. It is then replaced upon a heavily rounded belly before she has disappeared, brown-blonde hair wavering in the winter air.

On top of Haytham and his brilliant coordination, now Connor felt the compulsion to follow after this unknown girl. Well, girl was hardly a word to describe her. They were about the same age from what Connor had seen, including that belly rounded with an unborn child. This was cause for concern to the native. Should the woman really be out here at this time of night, in this blistering cold? The Assassin can't help but question the motive behind such a thing.

It is the concern for the unborn child that has Connor jumping to the next tree, and then the next, as silently as a woman of her stature could be in this tundra. Atop the tree behind which the pregnant woman had hid, Connor cannot find her. A glimpse of the woman's brown skirt is caught as she maneuvers behind another tree farther away from the manor. Figuring it easier for travel since there was some distance between the tree she stood within and the one the woman had opted to hide behind, Connor climbs down from the tree and takes momentary shelter within the snow-glossed bushes below. Feet sink deep into the powdery snow, disturbed only by the woman's feet before her own. This woman's feet are far smaller than Connor's, so stepping where she had stepped did little to aid in her travel.

Behind this tree, the woman disappears yet again, this time behind a grouping of trees still farther back from the manor. While it was still in sight, Connor was beginning to worry. The hidden blade clicks on her left wrist. She is prepared for what may come of this, if it were to be a trap as she began to suspect.

Behind the grouping of trees, the woman has stopped. In the dark, Connor feels some awe in her presence. The woman was truly beautiful. Her hair falls down over her shoulders in blonde-brown ringlets. Her eyes are aquamarine in the moonlight. Her hands cup her heavily pregnant belly. Over her shoulders she wears a thick fur half cape. Her dress is brown but not unkempt.

"Connor," the woman smiles, pink lips parting to reveal straight teeth. There was considerable charm to her smile alone.

"How do you know my name?" the Assassin trudges forward a few more steps. The distance between them is several paces, and despite the two of them being alone (seemingly), the hidden blade is not retracted. The polished metal gleams dangerously.

"You are close with my father, are you not?" the woman strokes her belly tenderly, other hand pulling the fur more tightly around her shoulders. Connor's brows furrow.

"Whom do you speak of?" the Assassin takes her time to examine the woman. Mixed feelings are developed when Connor notices the fanciful pistol strapped to the woman's side.

"Samuel Adams," to this, Connor raises her brows. The woman chuckles, the sound soft and suiting the snow in which they stand, "I now see what my brother meant when he said he runs into you in rather... odd places. I know of no other person who would dare climb these trees during a fresh snow."

Connor can only spare a thought to how many other children Samuel Adams has. First a son and now a daughter.

"How rude of me," the woman shakes her head, as though she's realized something important. She steps through the snow with caution, careful to keep her balance. The hidden blade is retracted once the woman is within mere feet of the native, "My name is Hannah. Hannah Wells."

"Wells?" Connor questions, reaching up to pull her cowl down lower her face.

"My husband," the woman gently pats her stomach. Connor nods, having forgotten the name-taking custom of the colonies. A truly odd thing to her.

"Speaking of such... you should not be out here," Hannah seems to have expected such words, closing her eyes and shaking her head, chin tilted towards the snowy grounds.

"Spare no thought to it. I will get on fine, as I always have. I've business to attend, after all," her eyes rove about the area the next moment. They fall back on Connor once the smile on her lips has faded, transitioning to a more serious look. A look directly resembling her father, "I assume that is why you are here as well?"

The Assassin offers a nod, which is returned by the pregnant woman.

"The men within that household will leave no time soon. I await some assistance. What of you?"

Connor's lips grow thin at the thought of her own help.

"My father is in the area. He sent me ahead while he rallies some local assistance," the urge to roll her eyes is held back, but her tone explains it all. Hannah chuckles, as though she understands.

"Well, then. I see no reason why we shouldn't work together. Do you?"

"That depends upon your goal."

The woman motions over to a felled tree, "I fear we may be waiting a while. Might we sit and discuss such?"

The Assassin ponders this before offering an arm to the daughter of Samuel Adams. Her chuckling does not prevent her from taking the arm offered.

"You know your male disguise does not fool me, yes?" she seems heavily amused by the way Connor seems insistent upon aiding her. Together they trudge through the snow towards the felled tree.

"I assumed. But you are with child," the Assassin points out; as though this solves every question the colonist could have to pose. Hannah does not seem convinced, though.

"You remind me of my own father and brother, with the one difference being you are of the female persuasion. You interest me greatly; I have heard much of your endeavors."

The Assassin shakes her head. Together they sit, the Assassin taking time to rub her hands together and blow hot air onto them. The half gloves hardly help to keep the cold out. The manor is within plain view through the shadow of the great tree branches that are weighed down by powdery snow.

"What do you hope to accomplish here?" Connor doesn't feel like making small talk about the things both Samuels might have said about her to this woman. Both men seemed to hold much higher opinions of her than she felt she deserved.

"My husband's sister and her young son have gone missing. I believe a man within the home is responsible for their disappearance," the woman sighs heavily as she adjusts her sitting position, hands resting protectively upon her rounded belly.

"You hope to find answers... in your condition?" Connor notices the woman's brows furrow, and quickly adds, "You risk your child's wellbeing, and your own."

Slowly, her furrowed brows rise up again, "I could never bring myself to do such a thing, but I cannot simply sit back and watch my husband grieve for a sister and nephew that may still be alive. I am close to her - her spirit is strong. She is alive. I can't... feel it."

"What will you do, then?" Connor looks the woman over with concern.

"I await aid. If I could charge that home and get my answers, I would do just that," there is fire in her ocean blue eyes, "I do not fear the redcoats, their command, nor the generals who parade about on their tall horses. If I could, I would slay each and every one of them, one by one, for the trouble they have caused my family."

Connor's head lowers, elbows coming to rest upon her knees as she leans forward. She breathes onto her hands as she continues to listen to the woman who acts with fire in her chest.

"My brother is overworked working beneath General Washington," blonde-brown eyelashes catch stray flakes of snow, "He hardly has the time to eat, to sleep, to relax. My father must stay away from home, leaving my stepmother to herself most days. I try to keep her company, but it is hard with my husband who is in need of my attention as well. With a child, I hardly see how our family will stay together. To find these men terrorizing my family... it hurts that I must sit back and watch."

A heavy sigh is heaved from the woman.

"I do hope we win this war. I would like the peace and quiet returned to my life," she turns her gaze from the trees to the woman who sits beside her, "Wouldn't you agree, Connor? From what my brother and father have said to me, you hardly have the time to sit down."

"I gave up peace and quiet a long time ago," Connor nods her head, "To see the Patriots victorious might pave the way to peace for myself and my people one day. I hold high hopes."

"That is good to hear," the woman nods her head, back straightening the moment her eyes is caught by something in the distance. It takes Connor several moments before she notices the pregnant woman's attention stolen.

Noise echoes from somewhere not far away, within the trees. Connor is quick to get to her feet, hand moving to grip the tomahawk at her side, opting not to remove it in fear that it might be her father or an ally.

A man comes trudging through the trees into the small area where Connor and Hannah reside. From a distance, Connor mistakes the man has her father, but once he comes closer she finds she is mistaken.

A smile spreads across Hannah's lips at the appearance of her brother.

"You are quite late, brother," she states jokingly, drawing a very similar smile from the man.

Samuel wears a cape similar to his sister's, but it is made of heavier furs and covers both of his shoulders. Instead of the usual green, he has opted to wear browns and blues instead. His cheeks appear flushed in the dark, face shadowed by the tricorn hat that had Connor mistaking him for her own father. It is startling how similar the man and the woman look, even in the dark.

"Dear sister, do not be unkind as the weather has been to me. My travels have been far too troublesome," Samuel chuckles, his attention moving from Hannah to Connor. The smile grows exponentially, "I just can't seem to go anywhere without running into you, can I?"

"Your words rang quite true," Hannah reaches forward and places a hand on Connor's forearm, gaze planted on her brother, "I found her within a tree not far from here."

"Climbing trees is hardly the thing you should be doing during this time of winter, Connor, my friend," Samuel scoffs, but doesn't seem surprised in the slightest. Nearing the two women, he reaches down to press a kiss to his sister's cheek and spares a moment to place his hand upon her belly, "You fair well, sister?"

"Certainly."

"And the child?"

"The child is strong," Hannah nods her head. This seems to reassure Samuel, who is of the mindset to keep an eye on his sister. His own expertise has him aware of her, and somewhat displeased she is out in the snow at such a time. But his words are withheld, opting to turn to Connor instead.

A hand is extended to the Assassin.

"What has brought you here, Connor?" the Assassin takes an extra moment before she places her numb left hand in Samuel's. As expected, the hand is brought to his lips. This common kiss on the hand has never felt so good before now, Samuel's lips radiating warmth. Hannah watches her brother with interest, as though she has already heard of what Samuel has had to say about the native woman and finds intrigue in actually witnessing their interactions.

"My targets reside within the manor," the Assassin doesn't bother to take her hand back from Samuel's, allowing him to hold it for seconds longer. She opts instead to turn her gaze and attention on the manor in the distance, "But there are far too many for me to handle alone."

"She says her father is bringing aid," Hannah seems exponentially pleased speaking of this, "We have hope yet, brother."

"Connor is quite reliable in these ways," Samuel tugs the woman a step closer by her hand, and seems tempted to twirl her but remembers the snow and simply lets their hands fall apart. Besides, now was not the time for such things, "I feel less nervous about our endeavor."

"Who is it you seek to interrogate?" Connor looks between the two, focused on the business at hand rather than the compliments Samuel seems eager to deliver her.

"A Scotsman, I believe. I've no clue about his name," Hannah adjusts her dress before she stands up. She carries herself with poise, "A burly fellow. Quite tall. I saw him kilted, once."

"It shall be done," she nods, turning her gaze to Samuel next, "I assume you are the aid she has spoken of."

"I could never let my dear sister try to confront such a man on her own," Samuel's brows raise, a chuckle passing his lips, "As fierce as she is, there is too much at risk."

"Should we wait for your father?" Hannah inquires, looking between the two. Her lips quiver with the cold.

Connor thinks on this question for a while. She takes her time roving the forest around them for any signs of other humans but there is none. There is only silence and snow.

"Let us locate our targets before his arrival," she finally states, "The more prepared we are, the more quickly we can handle our tasks. It will also prevent the accidental injury or death of the man who holds your information."

"I wouldn't say injury would be out of the question, Connor," Hannah's eyelashes flutter in the dark, smile soft and far too lovely for the comment that falls past them, "Do what you must."

"Shall we, then?" Samuel nods towards the manor. Before he acts upon his own suggestion, he makes sure to press one more kiss to his sister's cheek, "Remain hidden, and warm, sister."

"Do not fret over me," Hannah waves her brother off as Connor nods her own goodbye, "Do your best."

Connor steps into lead, Samuel following closely behind. Hannah waits a few moments before she, too, moves away from their previous spot, opting to hide within the thicker brush and trees.

"Such a headstrong woman," the doctor mutters, taking one long step to catch up to Connor's side, "Almost to the end of her pregnancy and she opts to traverse the snowy woods."

"She should be indoors," Connor nods her head once, voice lowering as they come closer to the wooden fence. The two hop it with ease, Sam taking a spare moment afterwards to adjust his hat.

"How many men does your father hope to rally?" something in Samuel's tone sounds skeptical, and Connor can't help but to inwardly agree with the words that go unsaid. This neck of the Frontier was nearly disserted.

"I do not know. If need be, I will handle these men on my own," she looks to her friend and notices the look he wears. One brow raised, half a smile on his lips. Because of this, she adds, "With your help, if you so choose."

"You are just as headstrong as my dear sister," the man chuckles, voice lowering with each word. The snow is lighter closer to the manor. The Assassin is the first to duck low upon approach to the house. Her palm finds the brick siding and the two duck beneath the windows.

"Perhaps we might split up?" Samuel offers, but Connor shoots the man a reproachful gaze. The doctor is caught off guard by this response.

"It is unwise," the Assassin points out with some frustration. Samuel nods his head, unwilling to contest it.

As they circle the home, Connor feels disdain. None of the curtains are open in any of the windows of the first floor. There is a balcony on the third floor, but it is inaccessible from anywhere other than directly above it - the rooftop. A sigh is breathed into the darkness. Stances are adjusted to straightness at the south end of the home. A finger is lifted to point upwards. Samuel's eyes follow her finger, brows furrowing, ocean-blue eyes glinting in the night's light.

The finger remains for several seconds. Samuel seems to have a sort-of epiphany, meaning behind the pointed finger realized.

"You're surely joking," his whisper is incredulous at best. A tone unheard of in the man's voice until now, the native finds herself amused. Her lips tip upwards into a smile.

"I have done it many times before," her tone is soft but the man is not comforted.

"Connor, you are a courageous woman. I, however, have never once thought to jump atop a building for fun," the incessant shake of the doctor's head helps the smile on Connor's face to widen.

"What do you propose, then? The balcony on the west side will be a good entrance point."

The thought of climbing up onto the roof to then climb down to a balcony seems to be ludicrous to Sam, who eyes the woman before him with disdain. The longer he thinks, the more obvious it becomes that he has no other viable plan for their investigation.

The Assassin turns her back on the doctor. Prompted to, the doctor trudges through the snow up to the side of his companion.

"It is easier than it appears," Samuel's hand is taken, and she forces his fingers to hook upon a ridge present in the brick wall, "Find natural hand and foot holds. Take your time. Mirror me, if you must."

"Have you ever fallen?" Samuel tips an eyebrow up, turning his gaze from the wall to Connor.

The rare smile is at its extent, as wide as it could be. A concerned look spreads over the man's face as the Assassin begins her ascent of the south wall.

"That is hardly an answer!"

The doctor's progress up the wall is calculated, yet slug-like in pace. He tackles the endeavor with fearlessness despite their conversation and despite a case of shaky fingers. Every now and then Connor tips her head to the side to spare a glance to the man who climbs with her.

"Do not look down," she whispers when Samuel turns his head to pear at the white ground below them. These words seem to cause fright, because the doctor's head whips back around immediately and he seems diligent in his climbing.

"I would prefer that we never do this again," he states with animosity. Connor snorts with amusement.

At the rooftop's edge, Connor turns back and offers a helping hand to the doctor. He takes her hand tightly in his, and once atop the roof breathes a heavy sigh of relief. He dares not look down from whence they had come.

"You did well," she says to him, hoping to keep the man's morale up. Samuel raises his brows, smiles in a way that describes hidden sarcasm.

"Do not try to fool me, Connor. If we were not trying to be stealthy, I am sure I would have heard much laughter from you by now."

"I do not joke," the Assassin leads the way across the sloping rooftop, an endeavor Samuel handles much better than the climb up to this point, "You are brave."

"Do not try to cushion me with your words. I am nothing of the sort," a tricorn hat is adjusted, blue eyes narrowed against the rays of moonlight that reflect off of the undisturbed snow. At this height, the world is black and white and blue.

The Assassin is the first to lean over the edge of the rooftop. The balcony resides just a few feet down. Samuel seems far more reluctant to look over the edge but does so as Connor begins the very short climb down.

Once the two have found themselves stable on the balcony, Connor attempted to open the door into the home. Finding it locked, she hisses her discontentment. Samuel peaks through a small window into the room connected.

"It is empty," he informs her, narrowing his eyes to peak through a small sliver where the curtains to not cover the window fully.

The Assassin lowers to a knee, digging into a pouch at her side for her lock picking tools.

"Is there anything you cannot do?" ocean-blue eyes follow Connor's hands as she works the lock.

"If I recall, I have answered this question before," her muttering is absent as her focus is placed solely upon the work she does. The admiring Samuel seems to do is passed off.

The lock clicks, signaling success. The tools are tucked away. As her fingers curl around the doorknob, Connor turns to Samuel and raises a finger to her own lips. Her companion nods his compliance, fingers tapping the handle of one of his pistols beneath the half-cape he wears.

The door slides open with little noise. The room is warm, prickling the numb skin of the man and woman who enter. It is a solitary, unused bedroom. It is fanciful in it's design, furniture carved from fine woods and polished. A thin layer of dust is settled over most of the items within the room.

Samuel slides the door closed as Connor wanders over to the exit door. A knee is pressed to the wooden floor, a single brown eye closed. The other peeks through the keyhole below the doorknob. Her lips grow thin.

Festivities are occurring outside, but there are not many people on the third floor of this manor. The few who are around...

Connor hardly has time to think. The first instinct is what she acts on - she jumps up from the floor and snatches Samuel's arm, yanking him to the nearest hiding spot - a cramped closet. The doorknob is worked as someone fumbles to unlock it. Just as the closet door is closed, the door into the room is opened.

The Assassin curses her luck, cheek pressed against Samuel's collarbone. Both people, despite their highly uncomfortable (and even painful) positions, remain stock-still. The two are crushed together, having to accommodate the old, dusty clothing within this cabinet as well as their own bodies, clothing, and weaponry. Not to mention the boxes at their feet, forcing them to work their legs in ways they hadn't ever wanted to be worked.

The doctor settles his chin upon the top of Connor's head, looking uncomfortable and unpleasant in the pitch-black darkness. Samuel's knee is jammed against the back of the closet, that same leg at an awkward angle in order to make them both fit.

Outside of the closet, some unpleasant noises begin to stir from two needy throats. The Assassin's brown eyes close tightly with frustration.

"Any ideas?" Samuel's voice is so quiet that Connor can barely hear it, even with her head tucked up against his neck.

The only reply? She shakes her head in a firm 'no', lips pursed with the frustration. There was no way they could get untangled and out of this closet without making a lot of noise, something she hadn't even bothered to think about in the rush of the moment.

The door of the closet is opened with slow caution. Both pairs of eyes peek out into the room.

Upon the bed a man and a woman tangle, the woman giggling words they cannot hear. From the looks of things, both are far too drunk, but neither wears the red that makes them deserving of a kill Connor might gladly deliver them.

The door to the closet is closed as a hopeless feeling settles over the two.

"Alright, here," the doctor adjusts the arm that is pressed up at the top against the closet. It encircles Connor, pulling the two of them together, while his other arm supports himself against the back wall. As quietly as they can they adjust their legs, try to push back clothing to make room. The effort is futile, they realize. They are both too big and the closet with its clothing is far too small to maneuver without making a considerable amount of noise.

Connor rests her head and her only free hand against Samuel's chest, closing her eyes. A part of her is glad she had grown accustomed to the man's touch, making this endeavor only a little less annoying. They were stuck until this couple left. The Assassin can only ponder the worst - what if this couple decided to stay the night in this room? Connor was sure Samuel would never be able to talk on his leg again, and she would have to cut off her currently twisted arm. Not to mention pointy objects seemed to be digging themselves into the two people in the most uncomfortable ways. Connor curses the heavy weapon load she carries.

For several minutes the two wait, and when the noise outside suddenly stops, Connor lifts her head too quickly and knocks into Samuel's chin.

"Easy there," he grits, pressing his cheek to her aching forehead.

"I am sorry," she mutters with agitation. The feeling between them is mutual. The Assassin tries her best to relax in this situation, knowing it would make dealing with it all easier. It was an endeavor she could hardly manage.

The noise returns soon after it as stopped. The Assassin can't stand the noise - the two sounded like a pair of drunken pigs. She wishes they wore red of some sort - maybe then she would take to killing them stealthily to try to end their endeavor.

The time passes. Samuel's breathing on her face is no burden but the air within the closet grows stuffy. A head is tilted up to try to find cooler air to breath but only finds Samuel's face, which is unusually warm. The grumble she murmurs only serves to make him smile. Despite the many negatives of this situation, he still bothered to smile. His endurance and positivity were astounding.

Connor cannot calculate how long they'd been in this closet by the time the noises outside have come to their end. Samuel hugs Connor closer for probably the fifth time, all in vain attempts to move his leg from its painful position.

"Your tomahawk..."

"I cannot reach it," she whispers as softly as she can, "Where is it?"

"I just meant... be careful. Your hip is..." Samuel tries hard not to snort and chuckle, shaking his head. A frown passes the native woman's features, "I don't want to lose my leg."

Both go silent as the door into the room is opened. Two pairs of footsteps are heard, one before the other. When Connor peaks out of the closet door, she is relieved to find there is nobody there. The next moment, the door into the room is closed. The bed is in disarray but the rest of the room is unoccupied by any other disturbance.

Both closet doors are flung open at once, Assassin and doctor breathing heavy sighs at the same time.

"Out, you, first," Samuel snorts, patting the Assassin on the back as she works her arm free of where it is trapped behind her back.

Once they've both made their way out of the closet, they take a few moments to recuperate. The room stinks of ale and sweat and sex and Connor will be glad to leave here and face the fight that likely waits outside. Samuel adjusts his clothing, his hat, all the while stretching out his abused leg and arm. Both people are sore, but Samuel does not look wholly displeased - as though the moments, however sour, had been cherished for the tiniest of reasons.

"Next time, might you..." Connor shushes the man before he can say anything further. The last thing she wanted was to discuss how they got into that predicament. She simply wanted to forget it.

The two step out into the hallway. It is lush, well lit by an abundance of candles. Chatter occupies the air as Connor drives her blade through a man in red. Another follows, then another, and another. The hall is cleared, and all doors are tested and found to be locked.

"Do you know what he looks like?" prompted to ask through curiosity, Connor doesn't bother to look back at Samuel.

"Yes, I've seen him a few times," Samuel peaks down the stairs, motioning Connor over, "My sister's description was really his only defining features."

Steps down to the second floor are taken with utmost caution, but nobody occupies the halls here.

The first door next to the stairs is already open, and what is contained inside produces the pair's first bit of good luck tonight.

"It is him," Samuel whispers, head hovering close to Connor's shoulder as they peak into the room together. The man sits at a table amongst friends. They toast a drink, feast on cooked vegetables and juicy meats. Ladies in fine skirts walk about pouring drinks. Connor spies one or two men of whom she is tasked with killing and feels satisfied. Perhaps the wait in the closet was worth it. But how would they handle this crowd?

"The others will have to be taken care of without the man escaping. What do you propo-"

Both Samuel and Connor turn their heads at once, both feeling the tickle of something frightening against the backs of their necks.

A pair of redcoats wield muskets, pointed between both intruders' eyes. A moment is taken as all four people stare at each other, as though just the sight of the intruders' faces have started the men who have obviously had more drink than would be appropriate for a regulated level of thinking.

A single arm is waved to knock the muskets away. When they are fired, they send shots up a floor and through the ceiling.

A moment later the door into the dining area is thrown open and the hooded native rushes inside. Her tomahawk is drawn as she leaps over the table at her primary enemies, a pair of men who are caught completely off their guard. Samuel's pistols are drawn as he steps backwards into the room. A bullet for each redcoat, between the eyes. The man was quick with his trusty weapons, tucking them away in favor of a short sword produced from beneath his half cape.

Connor's skilled blades carve the commanders like the cooked pigs which they had delighted themselves with carving. A commotion has erupted a floor below them as well, for reasons Connor spares no thought to. Samuel cuts down opponents with less grace, but is efficient in keeping his eye on their target.

The Scotsman, who appears to be more cowardly than the pair had thought, is pushing his way through the small remnants of the crowd towards a closed window. Cowardice was not common with his type, the native knew, so she silently attributes it to the heavy drinking he has done. Before Connor can prepare a rope dart to catch him the man has charged out of the window he has aimed for. A stupid move, the Assassin judges. They were on the second floor, after all.

The next person out of that window, to Connor's disapproval, is Samuel. Tied up handling the few other men who are left in this room, Connor finds herself unable to follow after the headstrong doctor for several minutes.

Connor's hands rest on the windowsill as she gazes outside, all foes having been dispatched. Samuel and the Scotsman have fled, the snow spotted red. The Assassin opts to use a better route of escape than the window, determining that the fall would be a hard one, since the snow below was hard-packed. The door and stairs are rushed, white and blue whipping behind the Assassin.

The bottom floor is a mix of blues, reds, whites, browns. It is a flurry of weapons. Men who fight for her side combat the redcoats who are too intoxicated to defend themselves.

Connor stumbles out into the frosty night, skidding along slick surfaces in her rush.

Two pairs of footsteps mar the snow. The trail extends over the fence and deep into the forest, to where the snow is deepest and where the Assassin can hardly hold the pace of a run.

A pistol is fired. The blast echoes throughout the quiet forest.

Two bodies lie in the snow. Connor's footsteps slow to barely a walk, a pit settling in the depths of her abdomen. Each breath begins to burn.

Blood stains the snow shades of pinks and reds. The two still bodies provide no comfort to the thoughts that race through a muddled mind.

The Assassin drops to her knees in the snow beside the doctor.

With great courage and mounting fear, Connor turns Samuel over onto his back and holds him in a semi-upright position. His body shudders with pain unseen, and his already open eyes are as wide as ever. It takes a moment before he recognizes who has turned him over and caused him further pain.

"I heard your steps, I thought you to be someone else..." he mutters, relaxing with the relief he feels. Connor does just the same, but her fears are not fully quelled, "If you could... assist me?"

There is some confusion to the moment as Connor tries to discover what Samuel is referring to. What is wrong? What wound does he carry? Her own shadow blocks out the moon's guiding light. When she reaches out a hand she finds the man's hip. After trailing her hand down a damp spot, the Assassin makes a disturbing discovery.

The Scotsman's ax is buried deep within Samuel's leg, and she has been unfortunate enough to find the wound with her fingers. The doctor's hiss is fierce.

"Easy, Connor!"

The surrounding area is examined. A lump caught in her throat is swallowed. Once her determination has been set and safety apparent, Connor grabs a hold of the fur cape Samuel wears and presses it to his dry, bloodied lips.

"Bite down."

A moment is taken where Samuel's eyes seem to light up in the dark. They are cautious and nervous, but understanding. The doctor is well aware of must come next, and the thought of it disturbs both people deeply. Despite the fear and the apprehension of knowing what will happen, Samuel obliges. Teeth are sunken into the fur that is offered to him. Bloody hands adjust the marred leg into a straightened position.

Those bloodied fingers curl around the handle of the ax. Her slow breathing serves as the countdown, both people tensing. The darkness is thanked by both people. They would not have to see much of the gore with their eyes. There is a first breath, followed by a second. A pause follows as Connor solidifies her resolve.

The third is sucked in through her nose as the ax is wrenched up and out of the man's leg. A hollow cry is all that is heard from Samuel. His teeth bear down on the fur with force enough to break them. His fist slams down into the snow, wounded leg twitching. He sits up now only because of Connor's other arm, which supports his weight and keeps him close.

Breathing comes ragged from the man's nostrils, and after a few extra moments his teeth come apart, letting the fur drop. As the doctor recuperates and learns how to deal with the excruciating pain, his companion is working as quickly as she can. Pouches and pockets are rummaged through in hopes of finding something to use to bind the heavily bleeding wound.

Upon discovering nothing of use, the Assassin turns to her own clothing. But before she can tear away some cloth or remove a belt, Samuel has shrugged the fur from his shoulders.

"It will be best," the Assassin takes the fur into her hands. The hidden blade clicks to life and the dull tearing noises of the fur fill the air as the blade is drawn through it.

Assortments of noises fall past Samuel's mouth and nose as Connor ties up his gaping wound. The hidden blade is used to cut Samuel's pants to reveal the wound so that the binds might be wrapped more tightly.

"You have done this before," the doctor points out, the essence of his usual smile appearing on his face.

Connor must stop for a solitary moment to observe the doctor's face.

Why would he smile at such a time as this?

But it did serve one important purpose - it helped the Assassin cease her panicked mode of thought and action. Taking a moment to evaluate his smile helps her focus on the task at hand rather than the rampant 'what ifs' that cloud her mind.

"Be quiet," she demands of him, taking a moment to wipe her hands in the snow to rid them of some of the warm blood on them.

"Stitching, I need... stitching," the doctor mutters, not too partial at this moment to Connor's demands for silence. But his words are kept in mind as she maneuvers herself beneath the man's arm.

"You need to walk, Samuel," one hand clutches the hand Samuel has over her shoulder, her other arm reaching around his back to ready the support she intends for him. The doctor groans his disapproval of this idea, but does as he is told with little other argument. Staying out here was not an option.

Upon his feet, Samuel can hardly keep his balance. The injured leg buckles beneath him, resulting in pained cries and slow steps. Connor holds as much of his weight as she can manage, but Samuel is not a small man. She cannot not support his full weight, try as she might. With each cry, Connor finds herself growing more nervous for the man's condition and the situation they are in. With the dead of winter's night closing in all around them, there are very few options on where to take the man that might lead to warmth or the supplies she would need if she is to save his life.

If the Scotsman were not already dead by Samuel's pistol shot Connor surely would have seen to his end.

The manor is not a place they can return to. Even from this distance the rages of battle fall upon tuned ears. Taking an injured man to a place where there were many other injured? Samuel's priority would be low, especially if her father came to find out he was here with her. She could see Haytham's face even now, the grimace he would wear. The things he might say. The way he would gladly stomp out Samuel's life despite Connor's arguments. It could not be risked.

But where else? The Assassin's eyes rove the darkness. There are no other buildings close by, she is sure.

Lady Luck delivers the woman good fortune for the first time in many nights - in the distance, barely visible through the trees and thick darkness, Connor spots an old wooden storage shed. Despite the decrepit state of the place, it would serve as shelter enough for the two of them.

"Come, Samuel!" she mutters to the man, turning them and starting the walk she was sure would be a slow, excruciatingly painful experience for the man she struggles to support with her full strength.

Samuel stumbles many times, dragging both people to their knees in the snow several times. Connor repeats words of encouragement but in her own language, one which Samuel finds foreign yet pleasing to his ears. The muddled man responds with very misplaced, choked laughter. A small hill is ascended, deep snow is traversed. Never once does Connor give up on the doctor or questions her determination in finding care for him in this state.

The door to the shed is kicked in, the old and frail lock falling to pieces. Connor hauls the doctor the rest of the way inside the tiny shack, and once inside he is settled into the grip of a large pile of hay in the corner.

"Thank the gods," the pale man breathes with a hoarse voice.

As the injured tries to adjust his wounded leg to a better position, his blood-soaked companion stumbles about in the darkness to find a way to make a fire. The shed is nearly empty except for a few small, less useful items - a metal bucket, which is kicked over in Samuel's direction for later use, some wire used for fencing, rotting wooden beams, a few shards of unknown metal, sacks of old grain, and a stray bundle of wheat.

Without saying a word the Assassin stumbles out of the open shed door, out into the darkness. The tomahawk is pulled from her side and is buried in a small tree, grunts passing her lips with each swing. The dull 'thunk' of metal-on-wood reaches Samuel's ears and he lets his eyes close. In his mind he imagines the Assassin as she swings the weapon, determination fixed upon her bloodied features.

Long minutes pass before Connor returns, pieces of usable wood in her grasp. It is dumped carelessly upon the dirt floor. The Assassin drops to her knees and begins to construct a suitable fire close to Samuel, utilizing the hay and the cold, wet wood that is nearly impossible to work with. The door behind her is closed most of the way but remains open to filter the smoke of the fire outside.

The light of the small fire casts long, dark shadows across the walls of the shed. Samuel's half-lidded eyes remain focused on the flames as they lick curiously at the cold air. Connor's focused, sharp features are highlighted by the glow of these flames.

But the wound on Samuel's leg is also revealed. The visual is disturbing as Connor peels away the soaked shreds of fur. The Assassin swallows hard and gags a moment later, finding herself unable to look at the wound yet. Samuel keeps his eyes on the native, not once letting his eyes fall to the painful, shredded thigh.

The door to the shed is thrown open again as Connor treads out into the snow. The metal bucket she has found is used to scoop up a large amount of snow. Once back inside the shed the bucket is set as close the fire as she can set it without putting it directly in the flames.

"What can I use to stitch?" she stops to ask finally, audibly breathless.

"Thread, a needle, anything that will hold the wound closed..." the doctor breaths, eyes growing unfocused, "that can be removed at a later time without doing d-damage."

As Connor rushes away to the shelves yet again, Samuel lets his hand hover over the wound, fingers trembling and stained with thick red. A noise of disgust leaves his throat as he finally lowers his fingers to the marred flesh. He traces around the edges of the wound, smearing blood as he does so.

"Thick thread, Connor," he corrects himself quickly, removing his hand from the wound not a moment later. His forehead is slick with sweat, tricorn hat lost in the depths of the forest along the way here.

One thing after another is picked up and dropped again, a ruckus caused as the Assassin fumbles with thing or another. She curses under her breath when she has come up empty handed.

Finding no other viable options, the Assassin produces her hidden blade and takes it's dangerous edge to her own sleeve. The tomahawk is used to cut a tiny piece of wire from the twisted mass in the corner. It is cleaned in the slowly melting water in the bucket.

Once the water has cooled, Connor empties a fourth of the bucket onto the wound. A sigh of pleasant and shaky relief is heard.

Gloves, bracers, overcoat are all removed. Long sleeves are rolled up to the elbow. Numb fingers are brought back to life near the warmth of the fire.

It is now where Connor begins her uneasy, forcibly steady work. Three deep breaths are taken before the makeshift needle and thread are put to use.

"Oh-Oh my god, y-you are bloody h-h-horrible at this," laughter appears to be Samuel's chosen method to relieve the pain of the stitching of his leg. Without any anesthesia, he was forced to endure each moment of the pain. He could feel as she worked the needle through his skin, as the thread is utilized to close the wound. Connor, in no way skilled at what she finds herself doing, must keep her hands steady even as Samuel mutters pained noises and laughs pained laughs. As his wound bleeds and his torn skin glares at her with all the malice in the world. Under pressure, the Assassin must work quickly and skillfully, a task daunting in nature but one she has been faced with too many times before.

The moment she bites off the end of the thread after the knot has been tied is a moment of relief for both people. Connor drops the tiny piece of wire she used as a needle onto her overcoat that lays on the floor not far away.

Two pairs of lungs are worked hard, two sets of breathing heavy. The remaining water in the bucket is used to further clean the wound. By this time, Samuel appears exhausted and pale. His dry lips quiver as Connor stands up to trek out into the blistering cold for more snow. While outside she cleans her hands and arms with snow rather than with water from the bucket, which was surprisingly clean and needed to stay that way.

Filled with snow, the bucket is set by the fire once again. Samuel's eyes are closed, his body now limp. Connor cuts away the man's pant leg as she waits for the snow to melt. Caution is taken to prevent blood from finding her newly numbed hands again as she wraps the wound with shreds taken from her own overcoat.

Ruthless upon the sight of her blood soaked overcoat, Connor takes her blade to an unstained part of the sleeve. Water is dumped upon this cloth and it is set across the man's forehead. No spare moments are taken as Connor continues to work, trembling with the stark cold.

"Samuel," she prompts the man's ocean-blue eyes open with the word. The water-filled bucket is moved close to him. A handful of water is scooped into her palm, the other arm assisting Samuel to sit up. He drinks from her hand, the lukewarm water bringing relief to his dry, blood-coated throat and lips.

His laugh and smile are not from pain this time. Lips tremble after each drink is taken.

"My sister-in-law... is safe," these words come out of the blue, yet another moment where something Samuel has done has brought Connor down from her panicked high. Another drink is taken from her palm before he speaks further, each drink clearing his voice and making him sound more and more like himself, "She and her boy escaped their captors."

The assumption is made that this is the information Samuel was able to divulge from the Scotsman during their struggle.

"I am glad, Samuel," a nod of the head, the rare signs of a smile. The doctor is made to lie back down in the hay once he has had his fill. Connor drinks down the rest of the water eagerly, a gasp of relief following closely after.

To her, the worst was finally over.

The small fire is stoked, pieces of wood added. They burn slowly, and hay must be added to the mix in order to keep the flames licking, large. The destroyed overcoat is pulled over and settled over Samuel's relaxed body. If not for the chuckle she hears, Connor might have thought him to be asleep already.

His bloodied hands are cleaned last of all, a detail Connor had forgotten until this moment. One of the man's hands settles itself upon his companion's leg, thumb stroking the bumps of her knee. The touch is not denied, but once again Samuel's thought processes are questioned.

"Rest, my friend," she orders, reaching over to adjust the overcoat on the man, making sure the hood was out of the way of the man's face.

"What of your task?"

Connor stops to blink. She had forgotten about the other men she was tasked with killing. Lost in the moment, all other things had been set aside in order to save Samuel.

The feeling that overwhelms her is not a good one. But then she remembers the men who did battle with the regulars and knows Haytham would be able to handle the rest of their task.

The Grandmaster Templar was always leaving much of the work to his daughter. She sees no harm in leaving this single task for him alone to complete.

"Completed," she mutters, reaching a hand up to wipe her bangs from her forehead.

"Then you should rest as well."

The hand on her knee is lifted, arm outstretched. He offers the place at his side to her, his embrace. Connor eyes the man with skepticism.

"I am not the one who nurses a wound," she stokes the fire with one of the pieces of wood, "I will keep watch."

Samuel eyes Connor for many long moments. Not once does she turn to look at him or bother to meet his gaze.

"Keep watch?" he questions, and Connor finds it somehow amusing that it has taken the man all this time to say those two words, "Who will come looking for us?"

The Assassin shakes her head.

"This is regular territory."

"It is the midst of winter," he points a finger over to the door that stands open, barely, "There are still many hours of the night left. Who will wander this way? You deserve some-"

"Do not try to convince me," Connor reaches over and tosses the Assassin's hood of the overcoat over Samuel's face, "I have had my fair share of close encounters with you for this day. Now, _rest_."

The doctor does even bother to remove the hood from his face. His hand drops back to Connor's knee.

"If it is what you wish."

Silence envelops their small shelter. The crackle of the live fire soothes Connor's nerves.

"Connor?" the man speaks again, his other hand moving up to finally remove the hood from his face.

"Did I not tell you to rest?"

"You will not allow me to thank you?" Samuel smiles through his exhaustion. Strands of his brown hair stick to his forehead and the sides of his face, his small ponytail mangled beneath his head. Connor observes the man's face slowly - the brows that pull up just slightly, lips that are parted to allow breathing, and the blue eyes that remain half-lidded yet just as beautiful as ever.

"Fine," she concludes, gaze expectant and impatient.

"Thank you," he speaks both words as clearly as possible, the grip he has on Connor's knee tightening, "You've managed to save my pitiful life tonight. For that, I am truly thankful."

The Assassin has no words as response to the doctor, who, moments later, settles in with the final intention of sleep.

Eyelids grow steadily heavier as an indeterminate amount of time passes with nothing but silence as company. Samuel's hand has been taken and rested back at his side once she is assured of the fact that he is sleeping. His features have relaxed, breathing flowing steadily.

It is cold, so very cold. The Assassin silently scours the shed for any solutions to this problem that might be available. From beneath an empty crate an old, moth-eaten blanket is found. The dust is waved off, Connor swallowing coughs.

Sitting close to the sleeping man's side, Connor wraps herself up in the old blanket, eyes focusing too heavily upon the tiny tongues of fire that lick desperately at the cold air. Their survival will last not much longer. The door to the shed has been closed, the flames heating the interior of the shed to be preserved for the night's rest.

When the flames have died down and the black of night surrounds her, Connor takes time to review the day's events and her current predicament.

She hopes that Hannah has made her way to safety. She hopes that Haytham finishes their task and focuses his efforts on that first and foremost. She hopes Samuel's wound will heal and he will not be permanently affected by tonight's events.

Thought after thought. It is hard to keep her eyes open. Once she almost falls into a doze, and catches herself as she about to fall over onto Samuel who sleeps peacefully beside where she sits.

With some reluctance, the Assassin allows herself to lie down in the hay beside Samuel.

Was the man not right, though? The regulars in the area were surely all dead or at home in bed at this time of night. They ran little risk of being found when there was nobody to look for them - the only exception she can think of being Hannah, but the woman appeared smarter than that to Connor. To remain out much longer would lead the woman into serious troubles.

Onto her side she rolls, facing Samuel. Eyes adjusted to the dark, she can see his dark outline. Brown, weary eyes watch the man's chest rise and fall with sleep. It is this sight, the repetition, the comfort and the lingering warmth of the fire and the soft invitation of this blanket that lull Connor into slumber.

When she awakens, Samuel is gone.

The Assassin sits up quickly, blanket piling into her lap. The door to the shed stands ajar, the cold of morning finding Connor's bare skin. The sleeves to her shirt are rolled down as she stands up. The bracer of the hidden blade is replaced on her arm, as is her gloves and second bracer.

It made no sense - why, and how, would Samuel get up and leave? The destroyed overcoat lies in a pile upon the floor next to the ashes of their fire.

The forest is excruciatingly bright once Connor steps out. Before she can open her mouth, Samuel is spotted - not even two steps away from the entrance. He stands with his back to her, one palm pressed to the side of the shack and in the other he grips one of his signature pistols.

It only takes one step forward to see around the man and to see where his attention is placed.

Haytham and Samuel are caught in a sort-of stalemate. The Templar taps his finger upon the hidden blade unsheathed upon his left wrist. His pointed gaze leaves Samuel only when Connor steps forward. Something in his expression becomes visibly angrier.

"What have you done to my daughter, dog?" are the first words to leave his lips. They carry a danger Connor cannot understand. Could never understand even given many years time to think them over.

Haytham was hardly her father. To be acting in such a way was confusing and unsettling once she contemplates Samuel's level of safety in this moment.

"What do you take me for, sir?" Samuel's brows furrow, "I can guarantee you that we have done nothing of the sort, if I understand your assumption."

Connor reaches up to rub at her eyes with only one palm, shaking her head to rid herself of the fog her few hours of sleep have left her in. Haytham's eyes narrow.

"Your assumption is wrong. If I had any suspicion of _that_ sort, your head would be facing the opposite direction your body is pointed," the man tilts his head slowly to the side, adjusting his footing, "Although I feel that talking civilly even now it quite pointless. I would rather extinguish your sad life and be done with you meddling with my daughter."

"I had not expected such radiant positivity from you so early in the morning, father," Connor blurts the sarcasm before she can check herself, tired gaze focused far too heavily on her father for this time of the morning. Samuel, surprised, turns his attention to Connor.

"You might attribute that to the long night I've had, dearest daughter," Haytham's voice is thick with spite, "Rounding up and killing those targets that you opted to neglect in favor of this worm."

Connor raises her eyebrows, gaze skeptical. While still tired she had yet to regulate herself. With the cold making her shiver and with her father's unbearable tones posed so early in the morning, she had little motivation to withhold any comments she felt like making.

"I am sure you are quite disappointed, father. Having to do your own work must be quite taxing," she snarks, earning her a raised brow from Samuel. He hardly expected such tones from her.

Haytham's jaw is set, eyes narrowed into a sharp glare. Connor tips her chin up, as though expectant of an explanation or retort.

Samuel's eyes move between the two Kenways, lips parted with his slow breathing.

"I still do not quite understand the assumption you make," the doctor poses the question, hiding the reluctance he feels towards speaking at this moment. Haytham Kenway was not one to be trifled with when put in such a mood, but with his daughter beginning to match his level of sass, he felt more confident in speaking.

"Take a look at the girl," Haytham spits, raising a hand towards his daughter. Samuel turns his gaze on the woman and examines her, "Caked in blood despite doing very little killing, missing pieces of her _clothing_..."

"Have you spared no time for observation?" Connor's voice is far quieter than her father's, her expression remaining neutral, "Or have you decided to ignore Samuel's injury?"

"You tell me, then, that you abandoned your task and our work in order to tend to a simple cut?" the man scoffs, adjusting the hat upon his head, "It is bad enough that the man carries despicable allegiances, but then he forces you to tend to his wounds when he could very well have done so himself, being a 'doctor'?"

"I would like to see you try to sew your leg back together after being struck by an ax, father."

"Despicable allegiances?" Samuel narrows his eyes, withholding a grimace, "Of whom do you speak?"

"You are Washington's physician, are you not?" Haytham takes a few steps forward through the snow, strut cocky, "One with proper brain function might determine, then, that you are loyal specifically to that coward of a man."

"Your opinion strikes me oddly," Samuel appears unafraid of Haytham's approach, the hand holding his pistol relaxed, "You and your daughter were 'tasked' with killing regulars, yet you do not favor Washington?"

"He finds problem in the choice of Commander in Chief," Connor turns her gaze, briefly, on Samuel, tone easing with the explanation. A moment later her accusing eyes are placed back on her father who stands only a few paces away from the pair, "He favors Charles Lee."

"Charles Lee," the two words are repeated with familiarity.

"Yes, Charles Lee," Haytham halts a few paces away from the two, gaze moving between them, "A man far more capable than Washington. The man is wracked with instability and insecurity. Hardly the man we need leading these colonies to independence."

"And yet, he does."

Haytham and Samuel's eyes lock.

"Perhaps now you realize why I find you despicable, boy."

The Assassin shivers, moving her hands up to rest upon her hips.

"What of our targets, then?" she asks, hoping to divert from the subject. All three people tread on thin ice at this moment, tensions raised high. Although Samuel does not speak, it is apparent that his opinion of Washington is high and he is ready and willing to debate the logistics of such. A useless endeavor - Connor would certainly know.

"Handled," Haytham spits the word, but then seems to settle a little more into his usual demeanor when he adds, "And I've come across someone of interest."

Suspicion rises in Connor's gut.

"Who might this be?" she poses the question despite the feeling that she is walking into a sort-of trap.

This is confirmed when a smile passes over Haytham's lips.

"I am quite glad you asked. I happened to stumble across a woman wandering near our targeted area last night."

Samuel's eyes light up. "Hannah?"

"Oh?" Haytham tilts his head to the side, amusement becoming a factor in the devious smile, "I was not aware you knew her. A shame, really. She was _pregnant_, even, but with the things she had seen, I could not take any _chances_-"

Haytham's words pause the moment the barrel of Samuel's pistol enters his line of sight. Connor has gone stock-still, eyes widening exponentially the longer she puzzles over the words Haytham speaks.

"What have you done to my sister?" Samuel's voice is ragged, eyes on fire. His pistol arm is straight and unwavering, finger hovering over the trigger and at the ready.

Silence dominates the air between the three. Connor tries to convince herself that Haytham would do no such thing, but she is unable to do so. How did she know what he would or would not do? She had watched him end the lives of innocents with no hesitation. What would a pregnant woman be to him?

Connor is growing anxious with the silence. Fear reflects from Samuel's hazy eyes.

Haytham's eyes move from one person to the other, slowly, carefully observing each expression. The smile never fades.

"She is unharmed," he mentions lightly, as though it is meant to be an unimportant side detail. Samuel's arm relaxes just that little bit, "But she is being held by my men. She had made a point of refusing to give me answers, so I could not simply let her walk."

Connor grimaces, rage flooding her chest and lighting her cheeks on fire.

Samuel lowers his pistol, finally exhaling.

"Now, I'd like to be rid of you and have my daughter returned to my care," Haytham reaches up and begins to undo the knot on the half-cape he wears, eyes planted on Samuel, "I will give you your sister in exchange for your departure from here. A fair exchange, as I see it."

"As long as she is safe," the doctor nods, with no reluctance.

"Shall we, then?" Haytham takes his half coat off, holding out a hand to the white, open forests stretched out before them. When Connor moves to assist Samuel in walking, Haytham holds up the hand that holds the half-cape, "The man can manage on his own, I am sure. He has proven resilient so far, I'm sure a simple walk will do no harm."

Samuel looks between the two Kenways before he takes his first few, slow steps. His teeth sink into his lip in order to avoid making pained noises. The point to this was obvious, and Samuel would not shy away from sticking a point to Haytham.

The Templar has turned his attention on Connor. He looks displeased as he throws the half-cape over her shoulders.

"Good riddance to that hood," he mutters, a hand on the middle of Connor's back ushering her forward. She moves forward reluctantly, shaking her head with the immense anger she feels but cannot appropriately express.

At least Hannah was safe, and Haytham had not killed Samuel. Those two things were the most important to her.

When they have reached the manor, Samuel's lip bleeds. His leg is stiff but he has managed himself well, his practice an aid in this endeavor surely. Connor has remained at his side throughout the walk, sandwiched between the two men as they trudge through the snow. When the door to the manor is opened, the first person to greet them is Hannah, who throws her arm around Samuel's shoulders and hugs him tightly. The scene is a warm one, Samuel smiling for the first time that morning.

"You had me scared, brother," she mutters, reaching up to hit the man lightly upside the head with her palm. The doctor chuckles meekly, "I thought you dead and gone, surely."

"I bear good news sister. We will discuss it soon," he nods, reaching up to rub at the spot where he was playfully hit.

Others linger in the area. Templar men and some men who are simply loyal to the patriots. Haytham had gathered the men himself, all having survived the massacre of drunken regulars from the night before. Connor's eyes rove over each man within her line of sight, interrupted when Hannah's arms are thrown about her own shoulders.

"Do not think you are exempt from my worries, Connor," she chuckles, and Connor allows herself to relax. She pats the woman's back gently, offering a half-smile when they pull apart, "I see you have taken good care of my dearest Samuel."

"He will need to rest," Connor looks between sister and brother, both offering their similar smiles as recognition of her concerns, "The wound is serious."

Hannah nods, turning finally to Haytham.

"I thank you for returning my brother to me," she nods to him, "considering your standpoint, it is a very noble thing to do."

Connor raises an eyebrow at this. Hannah appeared to be rather good at being a considerate lady, despite the sour opinion she likely held of him.

This, of course, does not go unnoticed by Haytham. Despite this, he is cordial in return.

"Hardly think on it," he waves a hand, his other resting itself upon Connor's shoulder. His gaze falls upon Samuel, "There are two horses prepared outside. I suggest being on your way immediately."

The doctor has no choice but to nod his compliance.

"Connor, do take care," Hannah takes up one of Connor's hands in hers, the touch tolerated due to Connor's odd mood, "My brother would be devastated if anything were to happen to you, as would I."

"I wish your delivery be a success, and your child healthy and strong."

"It is not long now before that time. Come and visit, soon, when you are able. Where you find Samuel, you will likely find me close by."

The pregnant woman steps out the door past the three who stand in its wake, making it obvious that she is eager to leave and be done with the place. But her disposition is not negative - she holds her belly and carries her head high.

Samuel's gaze follows his sister until she is at the horses. It is then turned to Connor.

There are many different emotions reflected in his eyes, becoming muddled with the pressure they have on them due to the presence of Haytham and his fellows. The Templar is no fool - he spares no glances elsewhere besides Samuel, wary of the man despite the agreement made.

"Take care, Connor," he says to her, and appears to debate taking up her hand in his usual way to kiss it. Both know the idea would not be worth it at this moment, so it is resisted.

"No dancing until you have recovered," the Assassin advises, with a nod. The corners of Samuel's lips tilt upwards.

Despite the things Haytham has put him through, Samuel still tips his head to the man (in lieu of his missing hat), uttering a "Thank you" before he makes his way, (painfully) slowly, to his younger sister's side.

Connor observes the man as he goes. It is refreshing to know that the man did not die during this endeavor, for he was confronted with many sources of it - the Scotsman, Haytham, and even the small endeavors such as the first roof climbing experience.

Hannah jokingly blows a kiss Connor's way once she has mounted her horse with the help of Samuel. The Assassin's smile shows to a small degree.

Relief spreads over the doctor's face once he has successfully mounted his horse. His gaze rests on Connor once more - this time it is filled with determination, the likes of which Connor finds to be confusing. She determines it to be misplaced her way - what did he have to be determined about?

"Rest, Samuel," she says to him, once more, tone as serious as she can manage.

"I will be sure to practice my climbing, once I've the time," he offers his humor in hopes of brightening her spirits which appear to be downtrodden. The only affect it has is stirring a chuckle from her, but little more.

The moment the two turn away upon their horses, Connor braces herself for the impact of Haytham's words - the many things she is sure he will want to say, the many insults he will throw, the horrible things he might accuse her of.

But none of it comes. Instead, Haytham's lips remain sealed unless he speaks to his men, demanding the cleanup of the manor and the removal of his bodies. He carries about his business as though Samuel and Hannah never happened, as though he hadn't had to go into the forest and retrieve his daughter early this morning.

Connor finds herself highly concerned when Haytham speaks no words to her at all about the incidents minutes previous.

His only instruction: "Find some proper clothing. I'd like that piece of my outfit back relatively soon."

The native had almost been depending on Haytham's nasty words in order to relieve some of her own angry tension towards the man. Now that he wasn't speaking of it she didn't quite know how to handle herself or how she was feeling towards this whole messy situation.

The snow outside is stained with pinks, reds, and browns. Green pokes through every now and again, blades of grass that have nowhere else to go except up. It is these subtle things Connor observes as she takes some hard-earned time to herself to think.

To evaluate her father's treatment of her.

To further understand the situation with Samuel and how it was proving, the more time went on, to be a burden rather than a help.

To understand why, despite this fact, she was more than willing to put up with him.


End file.
